Isengard's Deceit: What Little Girls Are Made Of
by Zoop
Summary: Eagerly anticipated by Uglûk on the plains of Rohan, Mauhûr is believed to have died with all the rest of the Uruk-hai when Éomer's Éored swooped in to deal with Orcish encroachment in the Westfold. Did he really die that day? Or was his fate something else entirely?
1. Chapter 1

Mauhûr had a job to do. He was a captain in Saruman's army, called _pizdur _Mauhûr by those of higher rank, and occasionally by the privileged few he considered his equal. All others addressed him as _pizdur_. He led five companies of Uruk-hai, numbering five hundred strong. When they marched in full might, the ground begged for mercy.

He'd risen in the ranks over the course of his fifteen years of life. He feared nothing and no one. He never backed down, and he never bluffed. When he told an Uruk under his command that one more time would end his life, the Uruk knew not to do it twice. If it was a matter of rules, no warning was given.

Mauhûr had rules. To fulfill his master's goals, to obey the orders sent down from his superior officers, he had _rules_. He had a job to do, and he did it well. According to the rules.

Few of his elders earned his respect; those who had it were strategists and thinkers. At their sides, he'd studied tactics and learned the strengths and weaknesses of his enemies. This knowledge furthered his master's agenda, so it was valuable to Mauhûr. He did not have any use for the zealous and those driven by base instinct or worse, the powerful lust and bloodthirst that consumed the young. It made them foolish and difficult to control. He did not trust what he could not control.

The duties of each _pizdur_ included razing villages to the ground, destroying goods they could not carry off, and scattering the whiteskins far and wide. Any that did not run fast enough were put to the sword. If specific orders were given to fill the ranks of the breeding females, he saw to it that a handful were spared and delivered unspoiled.

All knew the rules; the chosen breeders were untouched, for master had his records. Any others who survived were shared spoils. Mauhûr didn't care what became of them, so long as his rules were followed.

Mauhûr made it clear to those under his command that he did not tolerate rule-breaking. Only the newer recruits incurred his wrath with such transgressions. A few were bent on catching his unwanted attention today.

The village hadn't been large, but the take was bountiful. The dozen Men who defended the fleeing inhabitants were laid out in a neat row; a trio of Uruks under _pizgal _Fakhthal's watchful eye were handling the butchering. One of Mauhûr's many _pizgal_ had found a wagon that escaped the flames licking at a large barn and his troop was hauling it into the open. The _pizdur_ nodded with satisfaction; that would help them take more back to Isengard.

"Got the boys lookin' fer a horse, _pizdur_," the _pizgal_ informed him as he walked up. Mauhûr looked over the wagon and frowned.

"How will you harness the beast if they find one?" he growled, and the _pizgal_ sagged.

"_Fuck_," he hissed, and turned abruptly to collar a few of his boys and head back into the barn before the fire destroyed it and all it contained.

Continuing on his rounds, Mauhûr located a _pizbûr_ and motioned for him to approach. The grizzled soldier had lost an eye awhile back, yet disdained wearing a patch over the sunken hollow. General consensus had demanded he at least have the lids sewn shut. Halting in front of Mauhûr, he punched his own shoulder in a salute.

"_Pizdur_," he growled.

"Brogud's lads are looking for a horse," Mauhûr told him. "I want you seeing to it, Dushrûk, if they get lucky."

The one-eyed Uruk nodded. "Consider it done."

"Where are the breeders?" Mauhûr asked.

"The ones Dalgum picked are at the mustering area," Dushrûk replied.

Mauhûr smirked. "Old enough but not too old?"

Dushrûk chuckled. "I think he remembered you breaking his jerking hand last time. He did better on this round." Gesturing in the opposite direction, he added, "Some of the boys are seeing to the leftovers."

Nodding with little interest, Mauhûr moved on. His mood would have continued to be even and businesslike had not another of his _pizb__û__r_ come to him with a grim expression.

"_Pizdur_," he said, saluting. "The whelps are at it again."

Mauhûr's calm demeanor dissolved. Scowling, he turned on his heel and strode purposefully back to where Dushrûk pointed before. He didn't need any further comment from the _pizb__û__r_; he knew who the whelps were, what they were doing again, and how he would deal with it.

It seemed the youngest of his recruits had a difficult time following his rules. They needed constant reminders.

Two of the whelps in question were at one another's throats. Their contemporaries in age were either cheering the battle or rutting the few females still alive. A particularly well done in female with hair so pale it was almost white, yet youthful and smooth of skin, appeared to be the object of contention. She lay in a bleeding, sobbing heap, her clothing shredded from many hands, while the two Uruks intent on being the next one to have her were locked in mortal combat.

A warning was given once before; a repeat of the offense was intolerable.

Mauhûr waded into the fight and with quick, decisive blows, separated the combatants. Good; he had their full attention. Reaching down, he grabbed the female by the hair and hauled her to her feet. She trembled from head to foot; her shaking hands attempted to restore her dignity, pulling the remnants of her dress closed over her breasts. Mauhûr unsheathed his blade and cut her throat, then let her drop to the ground.

Rounding on the shocked offenders, he picked one to be the example. Clutching the front of the Uruk's jerkin, he yanked him close, then stabbed him in the throat and chest. Pushing the dying Uruk away, Mauhûr turned to the others. All were now staring at him fearfully. Even those in the midst of their rut had paused.

"We are _Uruk-hai_," Mauhûr snarled. "We do not fight each other, no matter the cause. Not in the field, and not over a toy. You will abide my rules or you will be _dead_. Have I made myself clear _this time_?" He shot a particularly hostile look at the one he'd spared. The whelp was still clutching his throat and staring at his twitching comrade.

"Have I made myself clear?" Mauhûr repeated. The whelp looked up and nodded vigorously. Scanning the rest, the _pizdur_ growled, "When you're done here, take them to Fakhthal's lads. Carry on." Then he stomped away. He had more important matters to attend to.

* * *

There were always horses somewhere, the Uruk-hai had long learned. Not a single village or town was devoid of their presence. Mauhûr discovered early on that any of his Uruks with a knack for handling them were a great benefit. Dushrûk was such a one. The ragged beast Brogud's _pizurk_ brought back trembled wild-eyed as the company regrouped. The veteran Uruk held its bridle and murmured nonsense near its ear.

It amounted to a recitation of numbers and a listing of the lads under his personal command, from each _pizgal_ down to the lowliest _pizurk_. Like all Uruks, Dushrûk did not forget much. The Uruk's rumbling voice and gentle strokes on the horse's neck kept it from giving in to panic from the stench of death and fire all around.

"Are they ready?" Mauhûr asked, coming up beside Dushrûk. He could see with his own eyes that the skittish horse wasn't properly harnessed to the wagon and some whelps were jeering and feigning grabs at the terrified breeders rather than standing in ranks as they should be.

His second and the most trusted of his _pizbûr_ wasn't fooled. "You want to catch me in a lie?" Dushrûk asked, arching his brow.

Snorting grimly, Mauhûr shook his head. "Five minutes," he growled.

"Right," Dushrûk nodded. Setting his lips tightly, he emitted a screeching whistle that never failed to capture everyone's attention. The horse jerked sharply, but Dushrûk had a firm hold. Uruk heads all around the mustering site swiveled toward the sound, and a few shook like dogs to relieve the ringing in their ears. The signal was a warning that was rarely repeated. Almost immediately, those who'd wandered from where they were supposed to stand ready when the company was preparing to move out, swiftly formed ranks.

Scanning the now stilled and readied troops, their shoulders straight, heads held high, Mauhûr's chest filled with pride. _We are fighting Uruk-hai! _he thought fiercely. His lips curved slightly in a rare smile. Then he threw his head back with a roar, and the company moved out.

* * *

**A/N:** Here are the military ranks as rendered in Land of Shadows Black Speech. I'll be using them a lot.

_maugoth_ General (commands several orc armies)

_mautor_ Lieutenant (commands an army of 1000 orcs)

_pizdur_ Captain (commands 5 companies)

_pizbûr_ Sergeant (commands company of 100 soldiers)

_pizgal_ Corporal (commands troop of 10 soldiers)

_pizurk_ Soldier, private


	2. Chapter 2

"You don't have to call me that anymore," Uglûk growled bitterly across the table. "We are the same now."

Shaking his head, Mauhûr drank from his cup. The lower ranks had little more than troughs to scoop their rations from, but he and Uglûk had always been privileged to dine among the officers in far better conditions. He wondered now if that was changing. He didn't much care for change.

"You are my _mautor_," he replied. "I have no wish to call these Dunlending dogs _mautor_. They haven't earned it."

"Maybe not by your measure, lad, but they've got the rank where Master's concerned," Uglûk reminded his former subordinate. "Master's word is law." It had been a bitter pill to swallow, having fought hard for over twenty years to gain the rank of _mautor_, only to have it taken away with no better reason than a wizard with no head for military matters needed an incentive in his dealings with the Dunlending elders.

Saruman's Uruk-hai gathered a hundred Dunlending Men a week from their clans, along with trade goods, leather armor, meat, and sometimes breeders. Mauhûr's next assignment was to open trade with one of these clans. It was a formality, really; those who spoke for Dunland had already agreed to the conditions of service. The show of force served as a reminder of who was the master. Saruman would see to it that Dunland regained possession of Rohan. In exchange, Dunland gave its sons and some of its daughters. To compensate for the daughters, the sons were given command-quality ranks in the army, often at the expense of veterans like Uglûk.

Growling low, Mauhûr nodded. "As you say."

"Look," Uglûk snarled in an undertone, leaning closer, "I don't want to lick the boots of those _pushdug_ either. You'll answer to Morcant like you would me. So will I. That's the end of it, understand?"

"I've heard from others," Mauhûr insisted. "They're saying even those they command go pissing off to the Dunlending _mautor_ when it pleases them. I don't want that shit in my army. They follow _my_ rules, obey _my_ orders. They don't go over my fucking head when they don't like what I'm telling them."

"You'd better get used to it," Uglûk muttered. "As should we all."

Mauhûr took a long drink and brooded for a few minutes. "Where will we stand at war's end, _mautor_?"

Uglûk sighed as much over Mauhûr's insistence on using the title as he did his answer. "That I don't know. With any luck, on a pile of corpses a league deep."

"With no luck, smoldering at the bottom of it," Mauhûr smirked. The two Uruks grunted with grim amusement and tapped their cups together, as they'd seen the Dunlendings do. Though if anyone reminded them that was where the habit came from, blows would likley be exchanged.

* * *

Mauhûr looked down the hill at the village, nestled in amongst low scrubby hills and sparse stands of trees. Dunland was a harsh country; those that thrived were few. This clan appeared to be faring better than most, and was likely the reason it was selected to provide resources.

Turning to the company of Uruks he'd led here, Mauhûr stared them down. He hoped he needn't remind them of their duty, but having recently laid waste to a target in Rohan not much different from this one, perhaps a refresher was needed.

"I have master's orders here," he said, holding up a neatly rolled scroll tied with a white ribbon. "I will speak with their headman and secure the goods. We take _nothing_ that is not on the list. If there is a problem, you come to _me_. Do not attend to matters on your own. Is that clear?"

"_Akhoth_!" the assembled Uruks barked in unison.

Jerking his chin in a nod, Mauhûr directed the company down the path toward the village. They marched in ranks of five abreast with Mauhûr leading. The _pizbûr_ of this company was Dushrûk; a few longer strides brought him alongside his _pizdur_.

"Ever been to one of their villages?" the one-eyed Uruk asked quietly.

"No," Mauhûr replied. "I expect it will look no different from the yellowhairs' villages. Men are Men; they are all the same."

Dushrûk smirked. "Not all. Some of the yellowhairs are roamers. Pack up all they own and wander about. Unpack at another spot and stay for a bit. Then do it again. Odd." Shrugging, he added, "Dunlendings do the same, but not since Master came along. They were told to find a good spot and stay there, so we didn't have to go chasin' after'em when we came for their goods."

"Where'd you learn that?"

Shrugging, the Uruk said, "Used to be under Grazhûn, five years ago. Had to chase one of them yellowhair bands down."

Mauhûr snorted. "Sounds like more trouble than it's worth. What did you gain?"

"Lotta horse-flesh," Dushrûk recalled thoughtfully. "Man-flesh, of course. Ten or so breeders." He shrugged. "That's about all. The roamers don't have as much as the settled ones. Travel light."

"Was there a purpose for the roaming?" Mauhûr asked curiously.

"Probably for the horses," Dushrûk suggested. "Spend too long in one place, they'll eat all the grass. Nothing left for them, then. Makes a bit of sense."

Mauhûr nodded, accepting this logic.

When they reached the village outskirts, Mauhûr called a halt. His Uruks stood still where he'd stopped them, awaiting commands.

"Dushrûk, fan them out," Mauhûr informed his second. "Show them our numbers so they will not be left guessing."

The one-eyed Uruk saluted and began barking orders. Ranks split off to position themselves in a shallow crescent. Mauhûr left them to it and strode purposefully into the village.

As expected, the headman scurried forward to meet him.

"I am Drust," the man said nervously. Sweat stood out on his forehead and he trembled slightly. His eyes flicked from the Uruk to his troops, standing alert and ready not ten yards beyond. Mauhûr was nearly the Man's equal in height, yet somehow managed to look down on him all the same. "Wel-welcome to our..."

Mauhûr held up the scroll and snarled, "_Pizdur_ Mauhûr. I have come for what is on this list, by order of Saruman the White. How long will it take you to fill the order?"

Swallowing nervously, Drust accepted the scroll and fumbled the ribbon loose. It fluttered forgotten to the ground.

As the headman read over the items required, Mauhûr's gaze drifted to the village. Word must have reached them before his company arrived; few folk were about. Men stood by their yurts, frowns on their faces, arms crossed defiantly. No females were in evidence, but he suspected they were hiding them. As if to prove his assumption, his eyes fell on a small Man-child, standing outside a shelter sucking furiously on its thumb and staring at the Uruk-hai with wide, terrified eyes. Within moments, a female darted from the shelter and grabbed the child, pulling it inside. The hide drape over the entrance twitched back into place.

"You... come for five?" the headman breathed, and Mauhûr looked at him again.

"_Thirty_," he snarled. "Can you not read?"

"I can _read_," Drust retorted defensively, then cringed as the Uruk's eyes flashed. "I was not speaking of the men your... our master requires. I meant... the women." He said the last in a whisper, closing his eyes for a moment. His jaw clenched and he looked on the verge of a protest he knew better than to voice.

"Do I need to remind you of your elders' agreement?" Mauhûr growled, his hand going to the hilt of his sword. "Dunlending blood is _required_."

"Yes, yes, of course," Drust nodded quickly, swallowing hard again. "We... we must make... sacrifices... our homeland..." His voice trailed off as he fought to steady his breathing.

"Your kind should be honored to bear ours," Mauhûr snarled.

"We are!" the headman insisted too hastily. "Most... honorable..." Gasping for breath for a moment, his eyes darting in a panic, Drust said, "Are there... any particular... that you are seeking...?"

Gesturing over his shoulder, his eyes never leaving the Dunlending, Mauhûr beckoned Dushrûk forward. The _pizbûr_ obediently joined him.

"You will show the females to Dushrûk," Mauhûr informed him. "He will choose. For now, show us the men. We need strong and capable fighters. I do not want whelps too weak to swing a blade."

"This way," Drust said, relief at the distraction from the inevitably painful duty clear in his voice. He led the Uruk officers through the village, and again Mauhûr's eyes wandered.

It was quiet here, he mused. The shelters were neat and ordered, arranged in clusters of five with a common fire in the middle. Though none but men could be seen in the open, Mauhûr smelled the females all around. He also smelled their fear. It was satisfying; if they feared him, they would give little trouble. The practical side of him was pleased.

Another part of Mauhûr felt a strange pull, a tug in his chest. This was where the Dunlendings lived, where they went when there was no war. He almost sneered; what was life, after all, without battle? Except that he had held a sword in his hand ever since he first opened his eyes and knew he was alive. He had fought tooth and nail among his brothers for scraps, for dominance, for respect. He suddenly felt the weight of his fifteen years settling upon his shoulders as he looked about him.

What was life _without_ battle? Was it this? And did he want it? Rest and quiet, something to call his own...

As they passed one cluster, Mauhûr's drifting gaze fell upon a shelter with a dark doorway. Unlike the others, this one had the hide drape held aside so that a brave female could peer out. The Uruk's attention was captured by this difference: darkness against the canvas of earth-colored yurts, and he found himself focusing intently upon the figure in the shadows.

Later, Mauhûr would not recall anything but the eyes: dark eyes that would haunt his dreams ever after. He blinked, and she was gone.


	3. Chapter 3

Dushrûk was no fool, not like Dalgum. He'd been tasked with breeder selection on raids and in Dunlending villages for years; he knew what to look for. Wider hips and sturdier frames were needed to bear more than one Uruk whelp and live. Master only took four from each female; the strain upon their bodies did not allow for more. So Dushrûk looked for strong, healthy ones.

Two of five he picked had proven themselves by bearing Man-whelps already. Dushrûk had his hands full, dragging those two along to the wagon. Barking an order, he called a couple of idle _pizurk_ over. Not only were the lads obliged to knock some teeth loose to get the females loaded with the boiled leather and dried meat, two Men who apparently owned the females required disembowelment to quell their protests.

It was a waste, really. They might have made good warriors in Master's army if they had not acted so foolishly.

Standing next to the trembling headman, Mauhûr scowled at the thirty Dunlending males standing in a disorderly group near the wagon. He saw many hands on sword hilts as the females were beaten until they stopped their infernal wailing.

"There will be no repeats," Mauhûr growled quietly, startling Drust. The headman glanced sharply at the _pizdur_. "You had ample warning of our coming; I trust you will be better prepared next time."

"Y-yes, Mauhûr."

The Uruk shot him a hostile look. "You will call me _pizdur_."

Swallowing thickly, Drust nodded. He tried not to look at the corpses of those women's husbands, already fly-ridden in the hot sun. Their reputation for quick anger discouraged the Dunlendings from provoking the Uruk-hai any further; the Isengarders' better skills and arms ensured it.

The Uruk _pizdur_ turned his head to glare at the headman. "Master needs better than this lot. You will train them as I instructed you. I expect to find another thirty with better skills than these pitiful wretches on my return."

"Of course," Drust agreed. Shifting nervously, he stammered, "Wh-when will you... Should we expect you... how long? A week? A month?"

Snorting, Mauhûr's gaze returned to his Uruk-hai. Now that the goods were loaded, his company was beginning to form ranks. "I will return when my master wills it."

The headman tried not to show his frustration or anger, but Mauhûr was well aware of both. Were he not under orders to maintain at least marginally civil relations with this village, he was tempted to provide more examples of his disapproval. He was certain to be 'gifted' with at least some of these worthless Men in his own ranks. Uruks he could manage; they could endure the lash as a reminder of who was in charge far better than the thin-skinned Dunlendings. A clout to the head with his truncheon knocked sense into an Uruk, whereas it knocked it straight out of a Dunlending. Mauhûr's Uruk-hai knew better than to break ranks and succumb to lust in the field; the Dunlendings he'd marched with lacked such restraint. They let their hate rule them, and its reign was a liability to their success.

Where there was no discipline, there was little chance of victory, he'd found. Allowing Men in the same units with Uruk-hai was as close to a guarantee of defeat as made no difference.

"Is this... all?" Drust asked awkwardly. "You have... these five. Is that all your... our master wants?"

Mauhûr slowly turned. "For now. See to it that we have no repeat of _this _as well," he snarled, gesturing toward the dead Men.

The headman struggled to swallow, finding it a difficult task. His mind was filled with fears of what his folk would say once the Uruk-hai left. What they might do when told they must send even more women to their deaths.

He was no fool; none of the Dunlendings were. They learned quickly that the women who were called to serve the White Hand never returned. But by the time their fate was understood, it was too late for the Dunlending people to withdraw from the accord with the wizard. They must all make sacrifices; the men _and_ the women.

* * *

Mauhûr's thoughts were far away as he marched at the head of the company, Dushrûk at his side. The one-eyed Uruk kept flicking his good eye at his _pizdur_, trying to assess the Uruk's mood. Something had changed for him in that village, and Mauhûr was not one who embraced change.

"So... what do you think of those Dunlendings now, eh?" Dushrûk ventured.

The silence stretched so long, Dushrûk almost thought Mauhûr hadn't heard him.

"They live in peace," Mauhûr finally said. "There is no taste of war on the wind here; no scent of battle. I wonder how they can stand it." The _pizdur_ kept his second in the corner of his eye, gauging his reaction, waiting for some sign...

Dushrûk sighed and shrugged. "I saw folk scared out of their minds. That lot we took... they're not fighters worth a fuck. Put'em in the front, let'em take the first wave. About all they're good for. That headman better see to the others quick, or master'll send us elsewhere for Men." Then he spat on the ground and growled, "Why we need'em at all..."

"It is master's will," Mauhûr replied automatically.

"Hmph," Dushrûk grunted, yet he did not pursue the subject. All knew where _pizdur_ Mauhûr stood on these matters. Glancing up at his superior, Dushrûk frowned. "You, uh... see somethin' else?"

Mauhûr's eyes darted to the _pizb__û__r_, and a warning growl rolled out of him before he could stop it. His face twitched a little as he worked to master himself. _Dark eyes..._

"No," he snapped. Dushrûk wasn't convinced, but knew better than to probe further.

* * *

Mauhûr's thoughts were plagued with that female, waking and sleeping. He started awake that very night, the memory of her eyes filling his mind. The remainder of the journey back to Isengard, he saw again and again the vague shape of her body in the hut entrance, the color of her skin and hair, the deep darkness of her eyes. Every now and then, he felt a strong urge to turn back.

What madness had taken him?

Unsettled and nervous, he sought out Uglûk as soon as he'd seen to the delivery of the goods and Men to the quartermaster. His former _mautor_ was absent, and Mauhûr chafed with unaccustomed indecision. This did not seem like something he should speak to just anyone about. If he was losing his mind, or worse, his fighting edge, he'd rather not address it with someone he didn't trust. Not even Dushrûk, though the temptation was there.

"Ah, good," a gravelly voice spoke, and Mauhûr tensed, his hand going to the hilt of his sword. "None'uh that. Ain't we had this conversation before?" Turning, Mauhûr growled at the casual approach of the smirking Pitmaster.

"You learned nothing," Mauhûr snarled. "What do you want?"

"Same as I'm always after," the Pitmaster shrugged. "Come on down to the pits, now. You're next on the list, your high-and-mightiness."

Mauhûr huffed a great, impatient sigh. "Is Uglûk down there?" he asked as he fell into step alongside the Pitmaster.

"Nope," the Orc replied. "He finished his round couple weeks ago. Ain't due for another in a bit yet. You think you can manage with just the boys on hand? I got a load of young comin' out today, and they gotta get themselves named and marked."

"I have never needed your assistance," Mauhûr growled. "Or theirs."

"All the same, I like to be handy, you know," the Pitmaster leered. "All you gotta do's say the word, and I'll be right behind yuh." Wheezing with laughter, the stooped Orc fumbled with the key in the heavy lock. Beyond the door were the breeding rooms and the cells filled with breeders. None held a key but the Pitmaster and the master himself. None were allowed to cross the threshold unless they were on the list and on the schedule. Master had his records.

Mauhûr hadn't the patience to listen to, or any interest in, anything the Pitmaster had to say on any subject. To his mind, the Pitmaster was positively the least admirable of his brethren, simpering and fawning after their master one minute and cursing him to the void the next.

Entering the breeding room always brought a mix of sensations to the _pizdur_. It was the most tedious part of his job, making whelps on the females gathered in raids or from the alliance with Dunland. Were it by choice, he might actually enjoy it. But it took time away from the duty he found more challenging and valuable: winning his master's war.

Yet the scent of rut and blood stirred him here as it did not in the field. It was a concentrated smell and the atmosphere was well ordered; the females were lined up neatly, spread wide and inviting on tables in a row. The Uruks at work minded their own affairs, only rutting the females they'd been assigned. There was none of the chaos and disruption of a raid, where the scramble for cunt threatened to undermine even Mauhûr's authority. No, the master's will was strong here, and though loathesome, the Pitmaster kept the proceedings comfortably calm.

"Shall I introduce you?" the Pitmaster snorted with cruel amusement, gesturing grandly toward Mauhûr's assignment. Casting a withering look at the vile Orc, Mauhûr stepped up to his table and set to work.


	4. Chapter 4

More than a month passed before Mauhûr was called upon to return to the village for more resources. He found himself eagerly anticipating the trip; he'd not forgotten those eyes. Though he'd thought better of bringing up the subject of his reaction with anyone, he began to ponder this odd urgency that had settled upon him, knowing he'd see her again.

He _needed_ to. It was a strange thing and made no sense at all.

As expected, the Men he'd fetched before were damn near useless and required replacing, a reasonable excuse for returning. As the _pizdur_ inspected his troops before heading out, once more those led by Dushrûk, the Pitmaster and a withered old grey-skinned Orc approached. Mauhûr ground his jaw so not to bark with impatient hostility at the newcomers.

"_Pizdur_ Mauhûr, lord almighty," the Pitmaster simpered sarcastically, "this here's Golmudalug. Goes by Golmud. Master says you gotta take him with you."

Glowering at the Pitmaster, Mauhûr snarled, "Why? What good is he?" Looking the wizened Orc up and down disdainfully, he added, "A harsh wind would knock him over."

"He's a sniffer, yuh lout," the Pitmaster hissed. "Two of them females you brought back last time was gone with whelps. You know that pisses him off. He don't have time to mess with Man-whelps. You take this geezer with yuh and have him sniff'em up good before you bring'em back, or master'll hear about it."

Torn between humiliation at being ordered about and fury with himself for committing any offense that might disappoint his master, Mauhûr seethed for a moment. He sucked a few deep breaths through clenched teeth, willing himself to calm.

It was doubly galling to know the Pitmaster only spoke so insolently to him when he had master's word backing him up.

"Dushrûk," Mauhûr snapped, beckoning his second forward. "Put this bag of bones in the wagon. I won't have us delayed by..."

Golmud's face never changed from its passive, mild expression, but his hand shot forward and took hold of Mauhûr's privates in an iron grip. Roaring in startled fury, the Uruk made to draw his blade, but the Orc's other hand grabbed his wrist.

"I'm thinkin' some respect is owed, pup," Golmud growled, squeezing both hands. Bones ground in Mauhûr's wrist; he gasped rapidly as he fought to hide the more dire pain elsewhere. "But I'll take the offer of the ride. I'd like me a nap on the way."

* * *

The village hadn't changed significantly since the last time Mauhûr was there, except that there was a bit of bare pitch at one end where even now several men were sparring. At a glance, Mauhûr could see some marginal improvement on those he'd taken before, but there was still a long way for them to go before they'd be worth much to Master.

They would stop a spear, and might, with luck, kill its bearer, but that wasn't very likely.

Once more, Headman Drust hurried to meet the _pizdur_ as he strode into the village. The Uruk-hai were ranged out and awaiting the slightest gesture should there be a need to unleash them upon the Dunlendings. The eager way their hands flexed on their pikes or loosened swords in their scabbards told of that potential. Drust tried not to notice them at all.

"_Pizdur_," the headman said in a subdued voice, wringing his hands and trembling.

Mauhûr presented a scroll to Drust, and waited as the man's shaking fingers opened it. "A-another... another five?" he said hoarsely, throat gone dry. The Uruk scowled.

"And thirty men," Mauhûr snarled impatiently. "The others were barely substandard. I trust there have been improvements...?"

"Yes, yes," the headman insisted. "Train-training... as you commanded. Always training."

"Good," the _pizdur_ nodded. "Now... the females."

"I... I took... took the liberty, _pizdur_," Drust stammered. "Imposed a lottery... to... to be fair. The ones chosen are... are... they are in here..."

Gesturing to Dushrûk and Golmud, the latter shuffling along sleepily, Mauhûr followed Drust into the large shelter.

Five women stood trembling in a huddle, faces red and damp. Mauhûr barely acknowledged them; his gaze turned to Dushrûk.

"Are they satisfactory?"

The one-eyed _pizbur_ circled the women, prying them apart and looking them over. They made little whimpering noises; the room was filled with the stench of their fear.

"Aye, _pizdur_," Dushrûk nodded. "They'll do."

"N-no husbands, this time," Drust offered unnecessarily. "No t-trouble." Mauhûr ignored him.

"Check them, Golmud," the _pizdur_ growled, gesturing toward the females.

"Ain't as young as I used tuh be," the wizened Orc grumbled. "This one first; hold'er arms back, lad."

Dushrûk did as he was told, hooking the chosen female's arms at the elbow. Her chest was thrust forward and a cry of pain and confused fear tore from her throat. Nodding with satisfaction, Golmud hooked his claws into the bodice of her dress and rent it open wide.

Her scream hurt Mauhûr's ears, but he found he didn't need to issue a reprimand. Golmud, clearly accustomed to these reactions, backhanded the female across the face. Then he grabbed her breasts in both clawed hands and snuffled them about the nipples.

The headman took a step forward, intent upon halting the proceedings. "Stand back," Mauhûr warned. Though he'd never seen a sniffer at work, Mauhûr wasn't about to allow an unnecessary interruption.

"Mm-hm, mm-hm," Golmud nodded, having finished his inspection of the female's breasts. Grabbing fistfuls of her skirts, he pulled them up, exposing her from the waist down. Smirking at Dushrûk's curious frown, he tucked the extra fabric in around the Uruk's arms to keep it out of his way. "Help us down, there's a good lad," Golmud grunted, gesturing for Mauhûr to aid him.

Exchanging a bewildered look with Dushrûk, Mauhûr obliged the aged Orc and eased him to his knees.

"Stay close, now," Golmud added. "I'll be needin' yuh to get up again. These old knees ain't so good as they was." Turning to the female, still a little rattled from the blow, he grabbed her knees and pushed them apart.

Her struggles renewed, and Golmud growled, "Grab this leg, lad." Mauhûr obeyed, taking a hold of the female's leg and holding it off the ground. Golmud nodded again, then licked his lips. Leering hungrily, he planted his face between the female's legs. In amongst the female's wailing and begging to be set free, the _pizdur_ could hear noisy slurping coming from the Orc.

Mauhûr's frown deepened. It was difficult to concentrate on what Golmud was doing, or even to comprehend it, with so much yowling going on. He considered striking the female again. Once more, he glanced at Dushrûk, struggling against the female's desperate attempts to free herself. The _pizb__û__r_ shrugged, just as baffled as Mauhûr.

After what seemed five minutes, Golmud's disturbingly loud 'sniffing' diminished, and he retreated, licking his lips with apparent relish. Mauhûr released the female's leg. "This'un's clean. Bring me the next."

* * *

"When I was last here, I saw a female," Mauhûr informed Drust. The headman was still shaken by what he'd witnessed in the shelter. He looked slightly nauseous, in fact. The _pizdur_ ignored it; though confused himself by the sniffer's methods, he wasn't about to show it in front of this Man. "You will take me to her."

Blinking with surprise, Drust stared at the Uruk for a moment, utterly speechless. To the _pizdur's_ left and slightly behind stood Dushrûk, arms crossed over his broad chest and a glowering sneer on his face. Mauhûr's expression quickly turned thunderous.

"Must I repeat myself?" he barked, startling the Man. "Take me to her now!"

Drust trembled as he lead the way in a daze. It was several heartbeats later that he realized he had no idea where he was going. "Forgive me, _pizdur_," he mumbled, flinching in anticipation of a blow, "where did you see her?"

Dushrûk smirked and chuckled; he'd wondered how long it would take the foolish Man to ask.

"That shelter there," Mauhûr replied, pointing. Drust's eyes widened and he swallowed with difficulty.

"That's... that's mine," he breathed.

Mauhûr eyed him levelly, his expression cold. "The female in that shelter is yours?"

Again, the headman struggled to swallow. His voice was weak and low. "She's... she's my... my child."

Grunting and nodding, the _pizdur_ gestured for Drust to proceed. The Man turned slowly and aimed for his yurt, his back stiff and his steps halting. Mauhûr narrowed his eyes as the headman's fists clenched and unclenched reflexively. Then Drust was pulling the hide drape aside, and the Uruk-hai officers were ducking inside behind him.

As his eyes adjusted to the dimness, Mauhûr gazed around. A scowl furrowed his brow; the interior was cluttered and haphazardly arranged, with clothing lying about on the floor and the bedding in disarray. He almost didn't hear the strangled cry of shock that greeted his entrance, he was so absorbed in the offense of disorder that met his eyes.

"How could you? Stupid girl!"

Drust's furiously hissed words caught Mauhûr's attention, and he turned toward the headman and his child. The female was nearly as tall as the headman; why Drust would refer to her as a child made no sense to the _pizdur_. Mauhûr's eyes narrowed dangerously at the wince on the female's face and the fearful trembling of her lip, for Drust held her arm tightly and shook her a few times.

"Release her," the Uruk growled, startling Drust into instant compliance. The man's face showed a hint of defiance and more anger than was tolerable as he turned and stood between the female and Mauhûr.

"Is this... the... the woman you... you saw?" the headman stammered. Mauhûr curled his lip.

"Step aside so I can look at her."

Reluctantly, Drust took a single step to one side, but remained close. Ignoring him for the moment, Mauhûr shifted his gaze to the female, and a strange feeling swept over him.

He could not have defined it if given a year to examine it. His brow furrowed as his eyes roamed her trembling form. When he reached her face, he saw a terrified, hunted look there. He saw fear in her large, dark eyes. He smelled her fear in the close hut. It poured from her like a wild torrent.

The scent of Men's fear had always pleased him before, but now he was curiously repelled by it. Yet there was nothing else about her he would call repellent.

"Leave us," Mauhûr rumbled quietly.

"_Pizdur_," Drust ventured daringly. "You have the women you came for..."

"_Leave us_!" the Uruk roared, turning his intense glare on the headman.

Drust's chin quivered, but he didn't move. "Please," he whimpered. "My child. I beg your... m-mercy."

Rarely was Mauhûr called upon to bare his teeth, but he did so now. "I have given you an order. You will _obey it_."

Lifting his head higher, Drust opened his mouth to protest. Mauhûr gave him no chance to speak.

"Dushrûk," he snapped. The _pizbûr_ needed no instructions; he grabbed a fistful of the Man's hair and hauled him stumbling out of the shelter.

"Don't hurt her! Please!" Drust sobbed desperately. His cries could be heard for a few more moments before the sounds of Dushrûk's blows silenced them.


	5. Chapter 5

When Mauhûr turned to the woman, he found that she'd retreated to the back of the shelter where she cowered in terror. The stench of her fear permeated the air worse than any he'd scented before. It was not pleasant. It did not stir his nascent bloodlust. No lust of any kind was aroused, for that matter. A completely different urgency consumed him.

_Protect her_, it seemed to say. _Calm her fear_.

"Do not fear me," he growled succinctly, in the same way he might have ordered a _pizurk_ under his command. Her uneven breaths culminated in a whimper, and she covered her head with both arms.

For the first time in Mauhûr's life, he did not know how to handle a situation. None of the solutions he'd learned to every other problem seemed relevant to this one. He stood in the center of the hut with a frown on his face, looking about him for some hint, some manner of guide to lead him to the next fight in this battle, but nothing presented itself. All the while that he stood motionless and silent, the woman's choking sobs frustrated him further.

_What do I do_? he thought helplessly, then shook his head sharply. He was _pizdur_ Mauhûr, trusted by his master, respected by his _pizurk_. He was undefeated in the field. No whiteskin had bested him in hand-to-hand combat. He certainly would not allow a _female_ to do so now!

"What are you called?" he barked. The woman startled and went silent, but did not look at him.

"Fe-... Fedelm," she whispered haltingly.

"I am Mauhûr," he supplied, again struck with inexplicable awkwardness. Her voice was pleasant to his ears; soft like doeskin, inspiring calmness. He was completely unprepared for it, and could think of nothing else to say.

She nodded, and breathed, "I know."

His throat had gone dry. Mauhûr struggled to swallow, and to fill the silence with something – _anything_. His eyes wandered the hut once more, noting the corner in which Fedelm knelt. It was neatly arranged and well ordered. Spare clothing was folded and stacked together. The bedding was smoothed. In this one corner, there was comfort and peace. It must surely be hers, for the rest of the hut was chaos. Comparing her tidiness with the headman's obviously scatter-brained housekeeping, his discontent renewed.

"This is your place?" he snarled with distaste.

She flinched as though he'd struck her. Everything he said had the same effect, as though he spoke with fists, not words. How he might change this seemed to elude him for the moment; perhaps he might discover a solution later. That he felt compelled to find one was unexpected as well.

"Yes, _pizdur_," she whimpered, nodding quickly.

"I smell the headman," Mauhûr noted, wrinkling his nose. "He lives here also?"

Fedelm nodded again, this time seemingly unable to speak.

"Does he rut you?" the _pizdur_ growled. Now her head shot up and she fixed him with a startled, shocked look. He felt the corners of his mouth twitching, as though urging him to smile. He fought the temptation, for he was Mauhûr, and Mauhûr never smiled. It made no more sense to smile at this female than any other strange urge that had assailed him since entering the hut.

"He is my _father_," she said indignantly.

The Uruk waved a dismissive hand. "I do not know 'father.' Does he rut you?"

She shook her head. "No. I am... his child."

"I see," Mauhûr replied with a frown. Again, the use of the word 'child.' He had no understanding of the concept, except to describe very small Men. Rather useless ones, in his opinion. Too small to hold blades. Too weak to fight. Easily slain. Why Men always seemed to have them around escaped him.

Straightening to his full height, he told her, "I do not like this place. There is no order to it. And it stinks of Drust. You will live elsewhere."

"I do not understand," Fedelm said timidly.

"I will inform your... father that you are to have a different place." Eying the female's corner, he nodded with satisfaction. "You will keep this new place as you keep your corner: neat and ordered."

"Y-yes, _pizdur_," she whispered. Her brow was pinched with confusion. Huffing impatiently, he reviewed his commands, wondering what he'd forgotten or hadn't made clear.

"I should not have to say it, but I will," Mauhûr growled. "I do not want Drust's stink in the new place. I also do not want any other Man's stink in it. Or on you. You belong to me now. Any who touch you will die by my hand. Do you understand?"

He hadn't thought the repulsive stench of her fear could get worse. Growling and exhaling sharply, he shook his head. "And you will cease fearing me. I do not like the smell. Stop it this moment."

She burst into tears and drew herself into a tighter ball on her bedding. "For-forgive... please. Mercy," she babbled. Her body shook so hard with terror, he barely understood her words.

This was not what he'd expected; not his reaction to her, nor this strange impotence in the face of her apparent cowardice. A _pizurk_ who cowered before him, who begged mercy, invited a clout and a kick; this female made him feel monstrous. He couldn't even identify the myriad urges she inspired, save one. Calling her his, declaring that she belonged to him, felt _right_. Being in her presence felt _right_. As though he belonged there with her. _To _her. Though he had no idea why these feelings were coming to him, they seemed to be guided by some instinct he'd been unaware of before. At least for now, he seemed to be stumbling in the right direction.

Swallowing his own bewilderment, Mauhûr mustered enough authority to say, "When I return, I expect these things to be in order: you in a new place, untouched, waiting for me. Do you understand?"

"Yes, _pizdur_," Fedelm choked, her voice muffled behind her trembling hands as she tried to hold back hysterical sobs.

Nodding shortly, he turned on his heel and strode out of the hut. The bright sun nearly blinded him, and he closed his eyes for a moment. His breath came in short, sharp gasps for several moments as he fought to constrain the wild hammering of his heart. How could he desire never to leave that hut, yet be grateful for having escaped it?

"_Pizdur_?"

Startled, Mauhûr opened his eyes and turned toward his _pizb__û__r_'s voice. Dushrûk still stood outside the hut, standing guard for his superior without being commanded. His one eye was narrowed, and he looked at Mauhûr uncertainly.

Apparently assuming that the _pizdur_'s business with his 'child' was concluded, Drust hastened into the hut, limping slightly and nursing a swollen eye. Mauhûr was too distracted to notice the hateful glare as the Man disappeared inside.

"Line them up," the _pizdur_ grunted to Dushrûk_._ "Ten minutes only."

"Aye," the _pizbûr_ nodded slowly, staring at Mauhûr for another long moment before heading off to gather the company.

* * *

An hour into their return march, Mauhûr could stand it no longer. The sniffer hadn't taken his beady little eyes off the Uruk commander ever since they'd left the Dunlending village. It was a calculating look, one that did nothing to hide the suspicious thoughts swirling behind those old eyes. Golmud seemed almost to be taunting him; daring the _pizdur_ to call him out and demand reasons for such a provocative look. Still unnerved by his confusing time with Fedelm – the name alone unsettled his thoughts and nearly caused his feet to stumble – Mauhûr was feeling uncharacteristically reckless.

"You have something to say to me?" he snapped. Golmud, reclining in the wagon with the cringing breeders, smirked at him.

"Been tryin' to figger it out," the old Orc replied. "Seen 'at look before. Ain't seen it on one'uh you lot, though. Seemed you was smarter'n 'at."

"Speak your piece, old one," Mauhûr grumbled. "Make it quick. I have no patience for riddles."

"Nar, this ain't somethin' yuh wanna go spoutin' all about," Golmud said casually, then snickered. "Guess you lads is always spoutin', eh? On the ladies, on the gents; just a'spoutin' every which way." He seemed to be overcome with amusement at his own little joke, wheezing with laughter for several minutes. Mauhûr rolled his eyes and refused to respond.

"Well, the lads're happy fer yuh, anyway," Golmud chuckled quietly. "Figgered gettin' some cunny'd calm yer ass down. Been awhile since yuh put yer dick to use, they say." Mauhûr shot the old Orc a surprised and annoyed look. It was on the tip of his tongue to snarl a retort about minding his own affairs, when Mauhûr noted Golmud's expression. The Orc had a sly, probing look in his eye, and his smile wasn't one Mauhûr would expect from someone sharing an appreciative laugh. "Guess I ain't surprised. Hard to resist, a fuck that ain't tied down. Do her right in her da's hut to show'im who's boss. No surprise you was in and done so quick. Model of efficiency, you are."

Mauhûr could not guess why the sniffer's words galled him. He had no idea why the mere idea that he'd gone into that hut to harm the female would offend him. Eyes flashing dangerously, he felt his lip curl and his fists clench. A low rumbling growl began to build in his chest. Golmud smirked.

"'At's all right, lad," he said in mocking sympathy. "Yer owed, I expect. Important bastard like you, probably too busy sortin' out the spoils to take yer due. Who wants a hasty fuck on the dirty ground with a bunch of jeerin' Uruks about, when you can take yer time, bend her over in the one place she thought was safe?" Sneering with contempt, he snarled, "Ain't never gonna be 'safe' no more."

"Shut it!" Mauhûr exploded suddenly, his voice carrying like thunder to every ear. The old Orc's face went coldly serious, the humor at the _pizdur's_ expense draining away like sand through fingers.

"Stupid boy," Golmud hissed, leaning over the wagon's side board. "What made yuh think 'at was a good idea, eh?" Wrong-footed, Mauhûr stared at the old Orc.

"What are you talking about?" he demanded in an undertone.

"You and me's gonna have a chat, when we get back," Golmud told him. "I was gettin' to like yuh, too, yuh stupid fuckwit."


	6. Chapter 6

Mauhûr stood rigidly with his back to the wall, glaring at the swarms of _pizurk_ and _snaga_ that passed. They paid him little mind; most knew to go about their business and not inquire after his, lest they receive a cuff to the head or worse. Though he appeared to be casually waiting for someone, inside the _pizdur _chafed with impatience. Golmud, that sly little Goblin, promised to meet him here after the goods were turned over to the quartermaster, but he'd yet to show. The Uruk's anxiety mounted as unexpected questions crowded into his idle mind: What had happened to him? Was it some manner of witchcraft? What did the strange feelings mean, and why could he not stop thinking about her? The sound of her name in his thoughts seemed to sooth him, but only momentarily. Calm swiftly gave way to worry: Were his orders being carried out? Had Drust built the shelter for Fedelm that Mauhûr demanded before he left? Was he seeing to her needs? Was he keeping his hands off her? Would she be there when Mauhûr returned?

He'd never been so consumed. Even as a whelp, fresh from the pits and swinging his first sword in the training hall, he'd known his purpose. He'd carried himself with confidence, for his Master was pleased with his sharp mind and strong body. Within his first year of life, Mauhûr was being groomed for command. Uglûk, his first _mautor_, took charge of the young Uruk's tutelage and taught Mauhûr how to scent and stalk prey, how to anticipate his enemy's next move, how to wait them out and strike when the time was right, how to break free when cornered, and how to kill with or without weapons. Though the young Uruk was trained in the very beginning, like all of them were, how to quench his lust upon an enemy female, he was not schooled in _this_. He was not told that there might come a day when one female out of thousands would shatter him like ice. He did not know a female existed who seemed different from all the others, as though she were not even the same creature. He was unprepared for a female who wordlessly demanded of him something he did not know whether he possessed, yet would willingly, gladly, desperately give if he did.

Though many Orcs and Uruk-hai were passing through this hall, somehow Mauhûr heard Golmud's shuffling footsteps in particular, and he stiffened expectantly.

"'Ere you are, yuh bastard," Golmud growled. "This ain't a chat yer fuckin' Master needs to know about. Come with me." Before Mauhûr could formulate a retort at the insult, the old Orc had turned on his heel and was heading back down the corridor.

For a moment, Mauhûr hesitated. He didn't like or trust Golmud. Remembering the Orc's unexpectedly strong grip, he wondered if he'd be called upon to defend his life. Mauhûr shook his head and chuckled to himself. He was likely younger than that old codger by hundreds of years. What did Mauhûr have to fear of an Orc so aged he couldn't raise himself from his own knees without aid?

Obligingly following in the Orc's footsteps, Mauhûr grew suspicious as their path took them upward, toward the valley above. None were allowed to roam there; Saruman's aims were yet unknown to his allies in the west. Even one Orc caught wandering by a visitor could endanger his position. Yet despite the rules of concealment, Golmud boldly led the _pizdur_ up the stairs to a small stone building behind the great tower itself.

"Ah, good," Golmud sighed, his nose tilted skyward. "No one's about. Patrols're probably near enough, though, so watch yer mouth. Keep it quiet." The Orc headed toward a stand of trees not far away, his steps guided by the shine from millions of stars.

"What patrols?" Mauhûr asked warily, his eyes darting from shadow to shadow. He was at a disadvantage here, with the sun long since set and the moon not yet risen. Gripping his sword hilt tightly, Mauhûr watched the Orc's every move, expecting an ambush at any moment.

"Warg-riders," Golmud shrugged. "Keep 'emselves to 'emselves mostly, but when nobody's marchin' out or marchin' in, they's about. Send yuh back down where yuh belong." Glancing back with a smirk, he added, "After they kick the bloody fuck outta yuh, of course."

"We are not supposed to be here," Mauhûr insisted. "I would expect no less. What is your purpose, old one?" He pulled his sword partway from its sheath. "I warn you, I will not be taken down so easily."

Finally stopping in a small clearing surrounded by oaks, Golmud gave the _pizdur_ a withering look. "If I wanted yuh dead, it's easily managed in the pits. Frapuishi owes me plenty. A nice little knife in the spine while yer dippin' yer dick in a cunny... Easy." He shook his head at Mauhûr's puffing indignation. "Nar, lad. It's cause I _like_ yuh that I brought yuh here. Yuh need tuh be taught a different kinda lesson."

Growling menacingly, Mauhûr stepped closer to the wizened Orc, freeing his blade. "What is this about?" he snarled, pressing the sharp edge to Golmud's throat.

The old Orc glared up at Mauhûr's face with apparently unmoved hostility. "Why'd yuh do it, eh? How many fuckin' times you been tuh that village? A dozen?"

"Twice," Mauhûr snapped. "What are you talking about?"

"_Twice_?" Golmud impatiently shoved the Uruk's sword away and began to pace in the small clearing. "Yuh been there two times, and yuh know that female well enough tuh _bond_ with'er? What the fuck were yuh thinkin', boy?"

"I don't know her at all!" Mauhûr retorted. Though he lowered his sword, he remained tense and ready. "I saw her from a distance – barely. Today, I demanded to see her closely. I know nothing about her except her name."

Golmud stared at the _pizdur_ incredulously. "Yuh get one chance at a bond. One... fucking... chance. Lad, how could yuh _waste_ it like'at?" He bowed his head, and drew a shaky breath. "Thought you was smarter'n me."

"What are you talking about?" Mauhûr hissed. "I don't know what a bond _is_. Is it this? Does it make you... feel things? Strange things?" Squeezing his eyes shut and clenching his fists with sudden dread, he breathed, "Does it make you go mad?"

"No," Golmud replied, frowning. "No, it don't. Not if it's done proper. It's... about mates. You know 'bout'em, right? You must, or you wouldn't've done this."

Mauhûr shook his head. "I don't know about mates either." Taking a hesitant step forward, he pleaded, "What is this bond? What is it doing to me? Can it be stopped?"

"Yuh _don't_ know, do yuh?" Golmud whispered, staring intently into Mauhûr's eyes. "Yer fucked beyond all hope, and yuh didn't even know you was doin' it to yerself, did yuh?"

Grabbing the Orc's wiry upper arms, Mauhûr snarled hotly, "I did nothing to myself! I looked at her and... She did this? Was it her?"

"Calm. The fuck. Down," he hissed through clenched teeth. "The lass didn't do nothin' to yuh. I'm guessin' when you went in her hut, she 'bout shit herself in a corner, tryin' to get away from yuh. Does 'at sound like she _wanted _yuh there?"

"Tell me," Mauhûr growled, his lips and nostrils twitching with the strain to keep from throttling the evasive little shit. "This moment. _Tell me_ _what is happening_. _**Now**_."

"Sit," Golmud snapped, already easing himself to the ground. Mauhûr all but flopped down, impatient as a whelp. The old Orc chuckled quietly to himself, fairly certain that he alone had ever seen the great Mauhûr pout like an Orcling. "First you tell _me_, eh? What yuh felt, what yuh did. Every bit of it."

Seething, Mauhûr huffed several times before complying. Golmud seemed to know about this business; the _pizdur_ could not afford to look elsewhere for an explanation. He grudgingly stilled his angry words, and let out a long breath. "The headman – Drust – was leading me to where his men were mustered, so I could choose the best for our Master. I saw the huts... the quiet... It was peaceful." His voice trailed off, recalling his moment of weakness when the notion of a life without a sword in his hand seemed appealing. Glancing up, he caught the frown on Golmud's lined face and shook himself. "I noticed a hut with the flap open, and a female peering out. I saw her eyes and I felt... something. I do not know what. Different, somehow. I knew I must see her again, but I didn't know why. I was confused. It was just a Mannish female. _Why_?"

"Eh," Golmud interjected, noting the rising anxiety in the _pizdur_ and raising his hand in a calming gesture. "Easy. So yuh saw her, then yuh came back here. What happened then?"

Drawing and releasing a deep breath, Mauhûr continued. "I could not get her out of my thoughts. Out of my _dreams_. Those eyes _haunted_ me, waking and sleeping." Looking to the Orc, he pressed, "What does it mean?"

"I think... best you keep goin', just to be sure," Golmud replied evasively. "What happened today?"

"I demanded to see her, and Drust took me to the hut," Mauhûr replied, his agitation at being denied an answer clear in his voice. "He called her his 'child,' but I saw no child. I don't know what he meant."

"'At was his whelp, lad," the old Orc explained. "They call'em child. Or children, if there's a bunch of'em."

Mauhûr frowned. "I thought a child was a runt."

"Nar, they's Mannish younglings. Don't matter now; keep goin'. What did yuh do in that hut, eh?" Narrowing his eyes and leaning forward, Golmud hissed, "Did yuh fuck'er right then?"

"I couldn't," the _pizdur_ snapped. "It did not even come to mind. The stink of fear in that hut was enough to make me sick. Drust's stench was on everything as well. And there was no order; the headman's things were thrown all about." Calm settled on Mauhûr suddenly. "But there was a corner: hers. All her things were neatly placed. She retreated to this corner and..." Brow furrowing, he muttered, "She cowered there. And wept."

Golmud rubbed his chin. "Then what?" he prompted softly.

"I didn't know what to do," Mauhûr replied in an exasperated tone. His thoughts had taken him back there, and he could see more now than he had then. "She feared me. Shielded her body from my eyes. All I could think of was, how do I mend this? What must I do to ease her fear?" He slowly raised his eyes to Golmud's. "I wanted her in my arms. To protect her from what frightened her. But... _I_ frightened her. How can I protect her from myself?"

"Ah fuck," Golmud breathed, burying his face in his hands.

"What is it?"

"Yuh got it good and hard, didn't yuh?" Golmud slowly lowered his hands. "'At's mate business, what you was feelin'."

"What is mate?" Mauhûr snarled, his helplessness and ignorance restoring his anger.

"Orcs say _sha__û__k_," Golmud snapped. "That sound familiar?"

"Oh." Drawing back slightly, Mauhûr stared at nothing for a moment. He'd heard the word, of course. It was only spoken by Orcs: usually with a measure of reverence, often with a note of despair. Yet he still had no understanding of it. _Sha__û__k_ was simply a word like any other, wasn't it?

Seeing the _pizdur_'s confusion, Golmud sighed heavily. "A mate – _sha__û__k_ – is yer other half. Completes yuh. Yer partner in all things. Yuh care fer yer mate, protect yer mate, do fer yer mate." A slight smile exposed the old Orc's surprisingly healthy teeth for one of his apparent age. "You'll kill fer yer mate, and you'll die fer'em. Understand?"

Mauhûr slowly nodded. "You are saying that... this bond... has made me... her mate?"

"Not quite," Golmud clarified. "Men don't bond. So the bond makes her yours, 's far as yer concerned, but that don't mean she thinks yer _hers_. Not that it makes no difference. _Yer_ gonna consider yerself belongin' tuh her as much as yuh think she belongs tuh you. 'At's how 'at bond works. But trust me," he added with a smirk, "'at lass ain't never gonna think yer hers. Probly rather yuh wasn't."

"I don't understand how this could happen," Mauhûr growled. "I did nothing. I just _looked_ at her..."

Sighing, Golmud replied matter-of-factly, "Yuh went and bonded yer ass to a _tark_, yuh ignorant fuckwit. What, yuh thought yuh oughta, havin' all them stupid thoughts 'bout a home and some peace? Saw that female and thought tuh yerself, ''At looks good enough tuh me, I'll take it'?" Shaking his balding head with frustration, the old Orc rubbed his temples roughly. "Nuttin' good'll come of it. Never does."

"What are you talking about?" Mauhûr snarled. "You speak in riddles!"

"Lad," Golmud said sternly, "yuh gotta face it. Better yuh know it now, I reckon. Yer Master don't want yuh doin' shit like 'is. He don't want yuh takin' a mate cause'uh what it does. Why yuh think some of us ain't up 'ere fightin'?"

"I assume it's because you are cowards," the Uruk spat. Golmud's hand shot out and gripped the _pizdur_'s chin hard. Mauhûr clutched and clawed at the old Orc's wrist, but neither loosened the hold, nor caused so much as a flinch about the eyes in the wizened face.

"Mind yer tongue, _baalak_," Golmud hissed. "Yuh talk 'bout things yuh don't know nothin' 'bout."

"Release me," Mauhûr rasped, prying at the Orc's fingers.

"Not til yuh learn some manners," Golmud replied coolly. "Night's young. Take yer time." As Mauhûr continued to struggle against the Orc's hand, Golmud mentioned casually, "Yuh know, there's things I could tell yuh. Things yuh need tuh know so's yuh don't fuck this up. Don't make no difference tuh _me_ if yuh do, but Master... well, he might not look kindly on his trusted sniffer if he thinks I got somethin' tuh do with his precious little stud's madness. 'Specially if it slows down yer 'breedin',' or makes yuh weak-minded in battle."

Mauhûr went still, and let his hands fall to his lap. "Will the bond do these things?" he breathed.

Slowly loosening his hold, Golmud nodded with satisfaction. "Got yer attention, eh? Good. The _reason_ not many of us is any good tuh Master is cause we got mates we left behind tuh come _here_. Now, if we was fightin' other clans fer territory, or defendin' our mates against our enemies, you'd see more fightin' than runnin'. Cause if it's mates – _sha__û__k_ – we fight to the death."

"Master keeps Orcesses out of Isengard," Mauhûr murmured, furrowing his brow. "Does he believe you will fight more fiercely if they aren't distracting you?"

Golmud snorted. "If 'at's what the bastard's thinkin', he don't know Orcs. We'll fight like mad to get our mates _back_, or to get to'em if they's in trouble somewhere. Nar, Master called us in'ere, and he turned the gals away at the door. Told us some bullshit 'bout it bein' too distractin' fer _you_ lot. His precious Uruk-hai, bred tuh wanna fuck anything 'at moves. Guess he was smart enough to let us think our mates'd get raped every minute by yuh, or it were an accident. Don't matter. The lads with mates turned their backs on'em, and 'at was 'at."

"Did you?" Mauhûr asked, a troubled expression on his face. "When you came to Isengard, did you leave your mate behind?" Golmud chuckled and shook his head.

"Nar, lad, I turned my back on my _sha__û__k_ couple hundred years back." The old Orc's gaze held Mauhûr's; the Uruk wasn't certain, but it seemed the Orc's eyes were more than a little mad. "Saw their mistake right off, though. Far from their mates, they'd worry. They'd fret. Sometimes, had tuh go off on their own and... get a grip on 'emselves. Weren't easy." Smirking, he added, "Why yuh think 'ere's so many tunnels leadin' out? Them ain't fer quick escapes if 'ere's a siege. Lads is buggering down 'em tunnels tuh meet their mates fer a bit of... alone time."

"Why?" Mauhûr interrupted. "Why did you abandon your mate?" The old Orc sighed.

"Yer _shauk_'s meant tuh be with yuh," Golmud replied softly. "Sometimes, though... well, ain't nobody gonna agree with yuh. Best just tuh... go."

"What did it do to you? Leaving her?" Mauhûr whispered, dreading the answer.

Golmud's head bowed and he looked away. "Don't make me remember 'at, lad," he breathed.

The Orc's unexpected reticence made Mauhûr uncomfortable, and he restrained himself from pressing further. The implication, however, was unnerving. Did the bond do this to you when you cast it aside? If he did not take Fedelm as his _sha__û__k_ – if he never went back to that village for any reason – would he go mad? Would he be afflicted with this same grief that had followed on Golmud's heels for hundreds of years?

"What must I do?" Mauhûr asked tightly.

"Whatcha _wanna_ do, eh?" Golmud shrugged, wiping his nose on his sleeve. "Whatcha think is _right_?"

Taking a deep breath, Mauhûr firmly replied, "I want her at my side. But I cannot lie to my Master."

Golmud shook his head sadly. "It'll cost yuh. Important little fucker like you probably ain't been under the lash in many a year. Yuh ready fer it?"

"If I have broken Master's rules, I deserve the lash," Mauhûr growled.

"Well, yuh have," Golmud confirmed. "You wanna go tell'im, or should I?"

Mauhûr found it difficult to breathe for a moment. While he would obediently report for his just punishment at any other time, and consider it a lesson well learned, there was resistance now. Uncertainty. "What will become of Fedelm, if... this is discovered?"

"She'll end up here," the Orc snorted. Mauhûr flinched; he knew already that he would never let another Uruk have her. Not even if commanded by Saruman.

"I can't allow that." Swallowing with difficulty, he gritted his teeth, loathe to speak such words. "I beg of you. Help me."

Smirking half-heartedly, Golmud sighed. "Never thought I'd see it: one'uh you lot beggin' one'uh us. Kinda satisfyin'."

"I do not want her harmed, Golmud," Mauhûr pressed. "Not by anyone. Especially me. Please tell me: what must I do? What are the rules?"

"Aye, lad, there are rules," the Orc agreed. "More rules'n you can stand, and cause there's a female involved, they change every day."

Frowning, Mauhûr said, "No. Rules don't change."

"Trust me, lad, they do," Golmud assured him. Sighing, he shook his head. "See myself in yuh," he muttered. "Didn't have nobody tellin' me..." Shaking himself, he said, "Ah'right. Cause yer showin' proper respect fer once, I'll tell yuh.

"First things first: you don't tell yer Master _nothin'_. Yuh keep yer mouth shut. Yer boys cheer fer the fuckin' yer gettin, yuh just raise yer head up proud and let'em go on. Let'em think their mighty _pizdur's _gettin' hisself some fine twat. And don't you _ever_ let nobody think 'at ain't the way of it. Understand?"

Mauhûr looked away and grimaced with disgust. Biting back a retort, he struggled to master himself.

"Work on 'at the most, lad," Golmud advised. "It ain't gonna be easy. Now, first rule of bein' a good mate is tuh make sure yer other half is taken care of. She's gotta have a place fer safety and comfort. Did yuh see tuh that 'fore yuh left?"

"Yes," Mauhûr nodded. He felt relief and a degree of youthful eagerness. There were rules to this engagement, just as there were rules for warfare, and for commanding Uruk-hai bred for battle. "I told Drust that Fedelm must have her own shelter, and she must be kept safe. No one must touch her, or do her harm. She must want for nothing. Food and clothing are hers whenever they are needed."

"Well, yer lucky she's his whelp, or he mightn't be so keen on puttin' her up like 'at. Maybe you didn't pay it no mind, but 'at bunch ain't been settled long. Maybe there's a load of'em, and they maybe stay put fer a long time when they do stop, but them huts was built to move. They's also made'uh hide. They don't have good cured hide growin' on trees in Dunland, lad. A shelter like you want's gonna cost'em. Better come up with a good excuse fer wastin' Master's resources on a bit of cunt."

Mauhûr puffed up with indignant fury. Golmud grabbed the _pizdur's_ elbow and jerked it hard. "Remember what I said!" he hissed. "Nobody can know about this, and you gettin' yer dick up about it's gonna give away the game. 'At's a rule, boy." Letting go, the old Orc withdrew. "All right. Second rule. Yuh gotta please her. Yer mate's gonna have her own rules 'bout what pleases her: _learn'em_. 'At means you'll have tuh ask."

"What about her fear?" Mauhûr pointed out. "If she fears me, she won't tell me what I need to know. She will say only what she thinks I want to hear."

Chuckling, Golmud nodded. "'At's right enough. Yer a natural at this, ain't yuh?" Smirking, he went on, "Yeah, 'at's somethin' yuh gotta work on first, 'fore yuh ever go touchin' her. Cause you'll wanna mate. 'At's part of it. Big part of it." He chuckled again. "Best part, some might say."

"How do I go about it?"

"Well... lessee...," Golmud began, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "There's a lot about an Orc a Man don't like. Our stink, fer one."

Taken aback, Mauhûr frowned. "What do we smell like to Men?"

Golmud snorted with laughter. "Orcs, yuh dummy!" he chortled, slapping the _pizdur_'s knee. "Hard tellin' what it is 'bout us 'at Men thinks is nasty. But since you went and bonded yerself to one'uh them, yuh better wash yerself up good whenever yer gonna see her."

Huffing impatiently, Mauhûr growled, "When am I to do that? We march almost a day to reach that village. If I am seen bathing every time we get near it..."

"Yer right, yer right," the sniffer agreed. Scratching his head, he stared off into space. "Hold on. 'Is might work. How 'bout if... yuh make her do it?"

"Make her do what?" Mauhûr asked, bewildered for a moment.

"Wash yuh," Golmud suggested. The _pizdur_ narrowed his eyes skeptically and looked askance at the Orc. "No, listen. It's a good way tuh calm'er down. Yuh have her wash yuh. 'At'll get'er used tuh bein' around yuh. As long as 'at fear stink is comin' off'er, 'at'll keep yer dick at bay. If yuh keep on just lettin' her do yer washin', and you keepin' yer hands to yerself... well. There yuh go."

"Are you certain?"

Shrugging, Golmud allowed, "It _might_ work. Never know with Men. Give it a try, though. Yuh wanna earn her trust, so she don't fear yuh. If she's got her hands all over yuh, and yer not grabbin' her titties or throwin' her on her back and fuckin' her, maybe she'll warm to yuh." Reaching out, he patted the Uruk's knee again. "'At's all yer gonna get, so don't go lookin' fer more."

"I will do these things," Mauhûr nodded. "Earn her trust through washing..."

"I wouldn't advise makin' her scrub yer dick, though," Golmud interjected. "Leastways, not at first. You tend tuh that'un yerself fer a bit."

Giving the Orc a withering look, Mauhûr snarled, "I do not allow the PitMaster to 'handle' me. Why would I allow _her_..."

"Ah son, what the fuck're you sayin'?" The old Orc's laughter wheezed from his lungs. "Yuh just ain't had the right hand on yer dick, have yuh?"

"No," Mauhûr growled sarcastically. "Apparently not."

"More of a lefty, are yuh?" Golmud snickered, biting his lips against another explosive laugh. "A'right. Never mind. Just do as I say, and don't make her do nothin' that'll get her worked up. Go slow and soft, cause she's a _tark_, and they got thin skins. Yer gonna wanna keep yer claws as far away from her bits as you can get'em. Specially her cunny. Sharpest thing yuh want anywhere near it's yer tongue and yer dick."

"My tongue?" Mauhûr asked, narrowing his eyes. "Does that please a female?"

"Fuck yes, it does," Golmud nodded. "Next time yer in the breedin' room, have yerself a look 'round. Get tuh know it. There's 'is button up at the top. Yuh treat 'at little nub like gold. 'At's the key, see. You be extra nice tuh that nub, 'n the female will be extra nice tuh _you_."

"Is this why you lick them?" the Uruk asked incredulously. "When you are sniffing for whelps, are you trying to please them?"

Again, Golmud burst out laughing. "Fuck. Please them? Nar, I just like the taste. Ain't no cunny in Isengard fer the likes of me. I'll take it where I can get it." Leveling a finger at Mauhûr, he said, "Them in the pit, the ones yer boys fuck on a raid... they's just cunts. _Mannish_ cunt, at that. Nobody fuckin' cares when it's Men, eh?"

Mauhûr nodded. No Man had ever earned his respect. They were treacherous and deceitful, cowardly and dishonorable. Worse than Orcs like Golmud, in fact. He could tolerate Golmud; he was fairly certain his first encounter with his new _mautor_ would end in Morcant's death.

A small voice at the back of Mauhûr's mind timidly reminded him that Fedelm was Mannish, but it was dismissed without consideration. She was not Mannish, nor was she Dunlending. She was Fedelm, his _sha__û__k_. That was all that mattered.


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N:** I don't often feel compelled to open a chapter with a warning, but here it is: major, shuddering, blecchy squick ahead. This may even constitute a trigger-type of scene. You have been warned.

* * *

Mauhûr stared at the breeder on his assigned table, unsure how to proceed. Only four days had passed since he'd received Golmud's instructions, and as luck would have it, he was fetched by the vile Pitmaster to his least favorite duty. Except today, he had a purpose of his own.

He'd never really looked at the breeders before; they were simply receptacles for his seed, interchangeable and uninteresting. Sometimes one would whimper or cringe from him, but mostly they lay quiet. Attempts at escape, or to hinder the proceedings in any way, earned them a clout from the Pitmaster or one of his lackeys, so they barely moved, and rarely made a sound. Mauhûr preferred it that way; it was less distracting.

The tables were shaped in such a way that the breeders' legs were spread conveniently wide. The leather restraints were at the shoulders, waist, wrists, thighs, knees, and ankles. Movement was restricted to barely an inch in any direction; only the new ones troubled themselves to try for more.

Today his selected breeder – no different from any others he'd bred with over the years – gave him pause only because now he'd been informed that a female's pleasure existed. He now knew that the part he had, hitherto, used nearly as a urinal, could be manipulated in a different way, to somehow please a female.

_You won't be pleasin' them cunts down in the pit_, Golmud had warned him. _Best you just ferget 'bout 'at now. Just have yerself a look about, poke it round, get tuh know it._

The old Orc had also winked and advised him to 'have a taste' while he was down there. Mauhûr wasn't sure he was quite ready for that.

Taking a deep breath, the Uruk slowly squatted down, keeping a wary eye on the breeder's parts. He swallowed, and his brow bunched. He moistened his lips, and placed his right hand on the breeder's thigh to steady himself. Then he carefully, slowly extended a finger.

"Whatchou on about down 'ere?"

Startled almost enough to lose his balance, Mauhûr jerked his hand back and shot the Pitmaster a furious, and somewhat guilty, look. He even growled a warning for good measure. The Pitmaster snorted with amusement.

"Jus' playin' like, eh?" he murmured. "Well, 'long as you get yer dick in 'ere at some point, I guess it don' matter whatcha do, eh? You bein' his Lordship and all."

"Leave me be," Mauhûr snarled.

"Shouldn't oughta remind yuh, but you gotta dip yer dick five times today," the Orc told him as he turned away. "So don' wear yerself out fiddlin' about."

Seething, the _pizdur_ turned his attention back to the breeder. He could feel tension where his hand rested. He noted an odd blemish on her thigh, vaguely circular and brown, then he ignored her. Reaching out, he deliberately investigated the bristly hair between her legs.

The breeder sucked in a surprised breath, then went silent. Careful to arch his thumbs so his claws did not scratch, Mauhûr pushed the strange fleshy bits about. They were on either side of the opening he usually just blindly shoved himself into.

_Yuh need tuh find 'at button_, he recalled Golmud saying. _It's up at the top. Pretty well buried in hair, usually. Yuh may have tuh dig fer it._

Mauhûr squinted in the flickering light from the torches along the walls. It seemed odd that the key to a female's pleasure was hidden. Was it of little use other than for pleasure? If so, why hide it? What purpose was there in hiding such a thing? Huffing impatiently, he aimed his questing finger upward, urging another shocked gasp from her.

There it was, or seemed to be. The _pizdur_ stared at the nub, exposed from its wiry-haired shroud and peeking from a hood of flesh.

_Nothin' sharper'n a tongue or a dick_, Golmud had said. Swallowing again, Mauhûr leaned forward and slowly extended his tongue.

"You been talkin' tuh that sick bastard, Golmud, ain'tcha?" the Pitmaster chortled. Somehow he'd sidled up behind Mauhûr and was leaning over the _pizdur_'s shoulder.

Mauhûr didn't react well when his concentration was broken. He didn't like being interrupted, either. Rising up with righteous fury, Mauhûr rounded on the Pitmaster and punched the smaller Orc in the face, sending him flying into the wall. Quivering with rage, the _pizdur_ curled his lips back and bared his teeth.

"Fuckin'... bastard," the Pitmaster grunted as he struggled to rise. He spat out a tooth and rubbed his aching jaw. "Master'll hear 'bout this. Get on with yer duty, yuh worthless sod." Dragging himself to his feet and leaning against the wall, the old Orc snarled, "I ain't gonna be so nice a second time, understand? Fuck 'at cunt, and finish it. No more muckin' about."

"Go to Master," Mauhûr sneered. "And I will tell him you make my work difficult with your meddling."

A slow grin spread across the Orc's face; Mauhûr found it unnerving. "Yuh think yer so special, eh? Yuh think the sun shines out yer ass, do yuh? If yuh didn't _sometimes_ make a whelp worth keepin', Master'd have yuh butchered tuh feed his _snaga_. Wouldn't bat an eye. Yuh sure you want me tellin' 'im yer playin' with the ladies when yuh should be about yer duty? Want me tuh tell'im yuh got somethin' tuh hide?"

The _pizdur_ swallowed with difficulty, and his lips closed over his teeth. "I have nothing to hide."

"That so?" The Orc's brow arched and his smile turned sly. "Get on, then. I'll do yuh a favor'n keep this between us. _Fer now_."

* * *

Mauhûr was denied further exploration while the Pitmaster roamed the breeding room, but the next day his luck was better. Another load of whelps was being pulled from the pits and required the Pitmaster's attention.

It wasn't so much the foul Orc's threats that troubled Mauhûr. He was confident that, away from his lackeys, the Pitmaster was easily defeated. The difficulty was that he had several underlings, and they seemed to bleed out of the walls like pus from a festering wound when their leader called for them. The _pizdur_ had learned this the hard way when he was still a _pizgal_, proud to be selected for breeding. He hadn't thought he should be shuffled along or ordered about like all the others; his arrogance cost him a great deal that day.

While he liked the Pitmaster no better now than he had then, Mauhûr grudgingly respected the Orc's authority. He wondered what leverage Golmud had with the Pitmaster, and if he could somehow use it himself. A question for another day.

Before now, Mauhûr had never known or cared whether he mounted the same female day after day, or if they were each different. Today he noted the same mark on this one's thigh that the previous day's breeder bore. The acknowledgement was only worthy of a moment's pause before the _pizdur _got down to business. He once more crouched beside the table and peered at her parts. He searched out and uncovered the nub. All the while, the breeder jumped and squirmed to evade his questing fingers, and she made whimpering sounds. Mauhûr paid her no mind, other than to press his thumbs firmly into the meat of her thighs as a silent warning.

He couldn't say he liked the scent of these breeders, now that he was close. But Golmud told him of this as well: _Yuh probly won't like the way they smell, down 'ere in the pits. Ain't so clean. Master ain't interested in makin'em fancy fer yuh. Probly won't taste so good, neither. But 'at female 'uh yers... yer mate... Ah, that'll be a scent yuh take with yuh fer all time. Yuh won't ferget it. And the taste... Like a fine wine, it is. Won't be fergettin' that, neither._

Mauhûr hadn't asked where Golmud got a hold of wine for such a comparison; the Orc was as old as the mountains, as withered as a dry heath. Who knew what sort of mischief he got up to in all those years?

The breeder's opening seemed small, pinched. Held closed. An experimental prod with a clawed finger forced a startled cry and another flinch. It was no wonder entry required force, judging by how tightly she squeezed herself shut. Force, in his experience, caused pain, something he wished not to visit upon Fedelm. How, then, must he coax this breeder to open herself, and thus learn how to handle his mate?

His tongue, of course. Settling himself firmly upon one knee and taking a deep breath, Mauhûr approached cautiously. He was dimly aware of the breeder's sobbing; it was a sound heard often enough in the breeding room. One tended to ignore it. Anything louder called the Pitmaster over to restore the calm quiet. He only made note of it now, he supposed, because he was attempting to put a stop to it in a different way. Now inches away, he firmed his resolve and extended his tongue. He touched the tip of his tongue to the nub.

He could barely taste the breeder with so little contact, but held his position and, for once, paid close attention to her reaction. Her thighs under his hands were tense and quivering; she had strained them attempting to thwart his actions. The sounds she was making were quiet, yet seemed to be held behind tightly pressed lips. He suspected she would cry out in protest if punishment for such an offense was not promised.

_Ease the tension_, he told himself. _Sooth the fear_. Slowly, he slid his tongue down toward the tightly-clenched opening.

"_Stop... he told you not to do that_," the breeder whispered urgently, her voice quaking. Mauhûr ignored her words; his focus was her body. She had stopped squirming, and lay still.

The _pizdur_ swirled his tongue about with fascination, curious at the interesting taste of this breeder and her odd responses. She would remain still, then shift slightly away. Extended contact with the nub seemed to freeze her like a frightened animal, while any attention paid her opening caused resistance and an attempt at avoidance. Encouraged by this discovery, he focused on the nub, exposing it and laving it with the tip as well as the broad flat of his tongue.

"_No... STOP! He told you not to do that!_" the breeder hissed in an urgent undertone, but Mauhûr barely heard her. The amount of tension required to resist him could not be sustained much longer, he reasoned. Something would have to give. About some things, Mauhûr could be determinedly patient.

Eventually, the breeder was worn down. When he found the way open, instinct drove his tongue deep, and he sighed with smug triumph as the breeder wept.


	8. Chapter 8

The look Drust leveled at Mauhûr as he all but snatched the parchment from the _pizdur's_ hand came dangerously close to earning the Man a few rounds with a truncheon. Or with Dushrûk, flexing his fists and sneering at his _pizdur's_ side. The headman pointedly ignored the _pizbûr_, and gave the list a cursory glance. Then he frowned and looked again. Blinking, he met Mauhûr's steady, unaffected gaze.

"No women this time?" Drust asked uncertainly. "And only twenty-five men?"

"Yes," the Uruk _pizdur_ confirmed. "Raids go well in Rohan; Master does not need more females at this time. Your last group of Men showed... better skill. Those who did not, require replacement."

The headman seemed to have come up for air from a lengthy time holding his breath, for he gasped as he nodded. "Very good. I am... pleased by... our Master's successes. Would you like to select..."

"Aedan will do the choosing," Mauhûr snapped, gesturing over his shoulder to a young Dunlending Man. "Dushrûk, you are with me. Drust, show me where I might find your... child."

Drust's mouth closed and he looked stricken. Jaw clenching, clearly biting back harsh words, he swallowed several times without answering.

"Must I repeat...," Mauhûr growled warningly, his brow furrowing.

"No," the Man interjected, the word huffing out of him with an explosion of breath. "No, of course not. The... the hut you... required is... it's just here." Trembling, the man led the two Uruk-hai through the village to a lone shelter standing outside the communal rings. Mauhûr narrowed his eyes.

"Why is it here?" he snarled. He didn't like this; it seemed isolated and lonely, sitting on the dusty ground far away from the nearest cookfire.

Drust chewed his lip, loathe to speak. A potent glare from the _pizdur_ loosened his tongue. "I assumed... you would want... privacy."

Though he still didn't like it, Mauhûr couldn't define why, so he set it aside. "Is she here?" he asked unnecessarily, for he could smell her there. Or rather, he could smell her fear. It was still ferociously pungent.

"Yes, _pizdur_," Drust said tightly. "I beg you. Show... mercy, if it is within you. She is my only child."

"You keep her from the lottery you imposed?" Mauhûr asked provocatively. The man's eyes widened. The Uruk smirked. "I suppose you are also paid well to keep other Men's... children... from the selection, eh?"

Drust slowly shook his head. "No. It is... completely fair. Random. I would not cheat our Master..."

The _pizbûr_ snorted. "Mannish 'fairness,'" Dushrûk mocked, spitting on the dry ground.

"See to it Fedelm is not chosen," Mauhûr told Drust pointedly. Setting his jaw firmly, he growled, "Your payment is this village. Make no mistake: she is _mine_. For as long as I wish to use her. When I grow weary of her, I will tell you, and she will be 'fairly' chosen. Do you understand?"

"Yes, _pizdur_," the headman breathed. "I... I reminded her of... of her duty. She... she will give no trouble."

"Good." Mauhûr turned from the Man, effectively dismissing him. "Remain here," he told Dushrûk. "See that I am not interrupted until we are through."

"Akhoth," the _pizbûr_ replied, thumping his chest with a fist in salute.

As Mauhûr ducked into the shelter, he heard Dushrûk snarl, "Go on. He'll find yuh when he's done."

* * *

As soon as Mauhûr entered the shelter, he knew it was all wrong. Though neatly arranged and clean, it had no hint of Fedelm's scent in it. Her fear almost hid the absence from him, but not entirely. He scanned the interior, his frown deepening. The trinkets and clothing that were hers could not be seen. The different color of the bedding also told him this place was not hers.

After a moment, his eyes found her. She was kneeling in a corner far from the bedding, her hands upon her thighs and her head bowed. Sometimes, a hand would raise to brush away a tear, but otherwise she didn't move.

The sight of her, however, caused a curious outrush of air from the Uruk. He seemed to deflate, to release tensions he was unaware of until he laid eyes on her. _She is my mate_, he thought, and felt a stirring of something altogether unfamiliar. It seemed he should make himself comfortable, for he could look upon her for an age and never notice the time passing.

But the fear scent was strong, and he grimaced as he tore his gaze away. The wrongness of this place... he couldn't still his tongue, or soften his tone.

"You have not made this place your own, as I commanded," he said stiffly, and she flinched. "Explain."

His answer was renewed sobbing. Growling low, more at himself than at her, Mauhûr tried again. "I told you I wanted you in a new place. Was I not clear?"

"Please," she choked. "I _am_ here."

Stymied by the truth of it, Mauhûr faltered for a moment. But only a moment. "Perhaps I did not make _this_ clear: you are to live here. I want your scent in the walls, in the bedding. I want to see your possessions arrayed to show that this is your place." Confident that he'd conveyed his wishes more succinctly this time, he unbuckled his sword belt. "Fetch what is needed: I wish to be washed."

Fedelm slowly raised her head and stared at him in horror. All it took was a glance up from his buckles to move her; she rose swiftly and darted out of the hut.

Doubt assailed Mauhûr for the first time he could remember. Was Golmud right? Or was the conniving Goblin steering him in the wrong direction? He chewed on the worry as he might on tough, dry meat.

Once their task was set, his hands automatically worked buckles and shed armor plating. His hands had been at this duty too long to be diverted once his attention wandered and his thoughts filled with Fedelm. With the removal of each layer, the metal gouged and scratched from years of wear in his Master's service, he felt his tensions easing. He could breathe more freely, and deeply.

The woman returned just as he was stepping out of his leather kilt, worn under the leg plates and chest guard already neatly stacked in a corner. Her shocked gasp and the slosh of water as she nearly dropped her bucket made him turn. Lip trembling, her gaze flicked over his naked body. She was rooted to the spot and couldn't speak.

Strangely, Mauhûr felt himself straightening. His chest seemed to swell of its own accord, and his chin dipped as his eyes sought hers. Even the scowl that rested so comfortably upon his face softened, though her face showed terror. _Don't yuh dare yell at'er_, Golmud told him on the way here. _Always act soft, look soft, and talk soft. Maybe she'll believe you can _be_ soft, and won't be so scared of yuh._

"Fedelm," he ventured, making an effort to lower the pitch of his voice. She jumped, and her eyes darted up to meet his. "Will you wash me? Please?"

It seemed an unseen hand pulled her by a rope across the floor, so reluctantly did she approach him. Frustrated, Mauhûr sat down to appear less threatening. He turned his back to her, though it was difficult to do so. He'd learned at a young age to keep his fellows in his sights, and never to trust one behind him. It seemed all the more important with each rank he earned. Anyone could smile to your face, then stab you in the back. He'd thwarted several attempts, some more successfully than others, in his life.

His back showed those times he hadn't been quite fast enough. By its scars, his back also told her that every now and then, even Mauhûr had disdained the rules set by others.

The touch of the cold cloth upon his shoulder startled him. He would have preferred warm water, and clenched his jaw against a barked reprimand. After all, he hadn't specified.

"Your hands shake," Mauhûr observed quietly, and she froze. "I will not harm you, Fedelm. I promise."

"Yes, _pizdur_," she whispered, and slowly resumed.

The close hut was warmed by the summer sun outside, and Mauhûr felt soothed by the cool water, the dip and drip of the cloth as Fedelm wetted and wrung it, the distant sounds of the Men demonstrating their skills for Aedan, the quiet within the hut. The feel of her hands, albeit through the cloth, calmed him. He felt his eyelids drooping, and his breathing slowed.

"I... I am finished, _pizdur_."

Shaken as though from a light doze, Mauhûr frowned and looked over his shoulder at Fedelm. "Am I clean?" he asked.

"Your... your back is, yes," she nodded. She couldn't seem to meet his gaze.

"Am I... do I...," he stammered uncertainly. Huffing at himself for his awkwardness, he asked firmly, "Does my scent offend you?"

Her eyes widened and her mouth shut tightly. She quickly shook her head, but he knew she was lying.

Sighing, he pivoted on his haunches to face her and leaned back on his hands, stretching out his long legs. "Continue, until I no longer offend you."

"Yes, _pizdur_," Fedelm breathed, her eyes filling with tears. Her hands shook harder, and Mauhûr felt compelled to take them in his.

"Fedelm," he rumbled as gently as he could. "I promise I will do you no harm." Doing his best to convey his sincerity, he released her and leaned back once more. "Only my chest. You needn't wash anything else."

Though she hesitated, and did not meet his gaze while she worked, he could tell that her fears were somewhat eased. They only lessened by a slight degree, but he was so focused upon her scent that he noticed, and was relieved. Her hands upon his chest, however, threatened to undermine his efforts.

Regardless of the crippling fear scent, his member seemed oblivious to Mauhûr's intentions of caution and restraint after Fedelm had scrubbed his belly. He felt it stirring, and attempted to thwart it by his will alone, which proved ineffectual. The woman noticed as soon as his member began to stiffen and rise, and her trembling increased.

So did her fear scent. Only by biting her own lip did she keep her panicked sobbing at bay. Again, Mauhûr reached for her hand and held it firmly. "I will not harm you. But I think... you should stop now." His hold on her hand was barely loosened before she had slipped out of reach, scooting away on her backside until she ran out of room against the hut's wall. There she cowered, her wide, dark eyes fixed upon him as though he were a terrifying monster about to slay her.

Defeat was not something Mauhûr could claim much experience with. He had, perhaps foolishly, set a goal for this visit to reduce her fear enough to allow his touch. Not just holding her hands, he now realized.

Standing, he went to the bedding and sat there for a moment, his brow furrowed in thought. Then he paused and looked at the coverlet. It was made of wool, dyed the color of the grasses so often seen growing in clumps in Dunland. Sage, he'd heard it called. He hesitantly laid his hand flat upon it, feeling the softness.

"Fedelm, come here," he said quietly. He flinched slightly at her whimper. It was not his intent to frighten her, yet he was determined to win this battle, and so gain ground. Stretching out on his side, he looked across the hut where she still huddled. "Please," he urged. "I would like for you to lie next to me. That is all."

Slowly, the woman unfolded her limbs and, barely breathing, she rose. Mauhûr tried to smooth his face, relax his brow, look encouraging and benign. Having never seen himself, or another Uruk, with such expressions, he couldn't be certain he succeeded. Each step she took seemed to require all her will to accomplish.

_She fears me, yet she bravely faces me_, he thought. A very slight smile tugged insistently at one corner of his mouth.

When Fedelm reached the bedding, Mauhûr raised his hand, hoping she'd take it. One of her hands was at her side in a tight fist; the other clutched the front of her dress so that her knuckles were pale.

"Come," he coaxed. "Please."

Avoiding his gaze and his hand, she knelt and turned her back to him. Very slowly, she lowered her body near his and tucked herself into a ball. She shook so much, he could feel it through the bedding.

"Thank you," he purred, and inched a little closer. "I am going to touch you," he warned her, "but I will not harm you." Encouraged by her short, swift nod, yet reminded by her strangled whimper that he had not won anything yet, Mauhûr reached for her.

He began by resting his hand upon her waist. It seemed that in this moment, alone with his mate, he neither needed nor wished to hear Golmud's advice. He could see with his own eyes, feel with his own hand, and smell with his own nose precisely what effect he was having on the woman.

She flinched when he touched her, regardless that he'd given warning, so he left his hand there for more than a minute. Gradually, her erratic breaths calmed a small measure. Moving another inch toward her, he let his hand drift forward and lightly press her belly. Fedelm gasped sharply but did not let go her breath; she held herself tensely, as though waiting for his words to be proven lies.

_Patience_, he told himself. The battle is not won by hasty actions. Another inch closer, and his chest was nearly touching her back.

"Fedelm," he whispered close to her ear, startling her. "May I hold you close? That is all I want."

"Y-yes, _pizdur_," she replied shakily.

"Thank you," he said again. With a deep sigh, he curled his body around hers and his arm encircled her waist. She hastily made room for his arm by opening herself up a bit, but she remained tense and unable to breath calmly.

"Ssshh," he murmured, feeling his own body reclaiming that state of quiescence her ministrations had inspired earlier. Eyelids heavy, he rested his cheek upon her hair.

It seemed his eyes had only just closed when the hide flap was pulled aside and Dushrûk entered the hut.

"_Pizdur_," he said respectfully, "the lads're gettin' restless. I held'em off as long as I could. You better get yourself out there."

Mauhûr met his _pizbûr_'s gaze, then made a show of rising calmly and confidently from the bedding. Fedelm, freed from his arms, seemed to sag with relief. She drew great gulps of air, as though she'd been held underwater for too long. Forcing himself not to see her reaction, nor display any disappointment from the apparent loss in this, their first engagement, Mauhûr began pulling on his armor.

All the while, he could feel Dushrûk's eye on him, and knew he must buy the Uruk's silence. The hide walls were too thin to mask what didn't happen inside.


End file.
